Snail Mail From Abroad

There is something about receiving mail from another country that still feels a little bit magical to me.

Not a package you were tracking.

Not a bill.

Not another email you meant to answer three days ago.

A real letter.

With your name on the envelope.

The kind that had to actually travel to get to you.

I think that’s the part I can’t get over. Somewhere, in another city, someone wrote it, folded it, sealed it, and sent it out into the world. And then, days or weeks later, it ends up in your hands.

It feels so simple.

But also not simple at all.

Most of the world comes to us instantly now. We see cities through reels, travel guides, restaurant lists, perfect photos, and captions that tell us exactly where to go and what to do.

And I love all of that. I really do.

But I also think there is something different about hearing about a place from someone who has actually lived inside the ordinary parts of it.

Not just the famous view.

But the grocery store they kept going back to.

The street dogs sleeping in the sun.

The mural they passed a hundred times and somehow never photographed.

The smell of bread from a little bakery.

The houses that seem to hang over the side of a cliff.

The tiny everyday details that become part of your life before you even realize they matter.

That is the kind of travel writing I love most.

The kind that feels less like someone saying, “Here is where you should go,” and more like, “Here is what it felt like to be there.”

I think that is also why snail mail feels so personal.

A letter asks you to slow down a little.

You have to open it. Hold it. Read it. Maybe put it somewhere safe. Maybe come back to it later.

There is no algorithm deciding whether or not you should see it. No caption trying to grab you in the first three seconds. No little red notification pulling you somewhere else.

Just paper.

Just words.

Just a small piece of someone’s world arriving in your mailbox.

That is what I wanted Letters From a Friend Abroad to feel like.

A way to visit a city without needing to pack a bag.

A way to receive something from somewhere else in the world that feels thoughtful, personal, and real.

Each month, I write from a different place and send a real letter in the mail. Inside the envelope, there are little pieces of the city too: field notes, a postcard, a keepsake, a word key, an audio version, and a sticker for your little passport.

It is not really meant to be a travel guide.

It is more like being written to by a friend who wants to tell you what a place felt like while they were there.

The first letter is from Tbilisi, Georgia.

And honestly, writing it made me realize how much this city has gotten under my skin.

The wooden balconies.

The sulfur baths.

The dogs with colored ear tags.

The old women dressed in black.

The homemade wine in reused plastic bottles.

The way ordinary things became ordinary while I lived here, and then suddenly became beautiful the moment I started trying to explain them to someone else.

That is the funny thing about leaving a place.

You start noticing it properly right at the end.

And maybe that is part of why I wanted to send these letters.

To notice the places I have lived before they blur into memory.

To save the small details.

To send them to someone who might never stand on that street, but can still feel a little bit like they were there.

Because I think we are all craving slower things right now.

Things that are not gone in a swipe.

Things that feel like someone thought of us.

Things we can hold.

A letter from abroad is such a small thing, really.

But sometimes small things are the ones that stay with us.

An envelope in the mailbox.

A postcard from a city you have never been to.

A few pages written from somewhere far away.

A little piece of the world, sent just for you.